


Hitting the Ground

by poppunkpadfoot (StormVandal)



Series: a body from the balcony [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: HPFT, First War with Voldemort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 08:31:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18311975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormVandal/pseuds/poppunkpadfoot
Summary: Hewantsto be loved. He also, in a vague sort of way, wouldn’t mind loving someone in return. It’s all a bit ironic - that he could be so cut off from something he wants to feel, while he feels everything else so hard it hurts.Written for HPFT's Great Collab, theme: back from the brink, challenge: internalized oppression





	Hitting the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Townie by Mitski. I wouldn't say this is _based_ on that song, but I would say _inspired by_ \- I listened to it basically non-stop while writing this!
> 
> As usual, a big ol' thank you to Emma (facingthenorthwind) for helping me out with this and cheering me on!

The first boy Sirius Black ever kissed was Roger Acton from Hufflepuff. They’d snogged in a broom cupboard, and Sirius barely understood how they’d got there, and he’d spent the whole time listening hard for footsteps in the corridor outside. 

Roger was an excellent kisser, and Sirius wished he weren’t; he’d been hoping, distantly, that he’d be terrible and that it would flip some switch in his brain, knock things into place inside of him, _fix_ him. But Roger was an excellent kisser and Sirius was hard and he hated himself.

“I thought I was the only one at Hogwarts,” Roger had said as they sorted themselves out afterwards. “The only gay bloke, I mean.” He’d sounded excited and wondering and _happy_ , and Sirius had hated him too.

“I’m not,” he’d said sharply. “I’m not gay,” and he’d left without another word.

*

The thing is, Sirius knows he’s not attracted to women - several failed experiments at Hogwarts had proven that beyond the shadow of a doubt - but he can’t help but wish he were. It would be so much easier. He’s good-looking, he knows he is, and women are interested in him. It would be simple enough to find a girlfriend, if only he reciprocated any of that interest.

It’s just so much easier to imagine what life would be like with a woman - not sex, a _life_ . They’d probably go on romantic dates, get married, buy a house with a white picket fence and have children. It’s not that he _wants_ to do all those things, really - it’s just that he can at least conceptualize what it would look like. Sex with men is one thing - by the time he’d graduated Hogwarts, he was past denying that he wants it - but he doesn’t think he could ever love a man. How can he, when the mere thought of it grips his insides with panic that makes him struggle to breathe.  


*

He _wants_ to be loved. He also, in a vague sort of way, wouldn’t mind loving someone in return. It’s all a bit ironic - that he could be so cut off from something he _wants_ to feel, while he feels everything else so hard it hurts - 

*

\- including loneliness, which suffocates him each night as he tries to fall asleep. He’s being slowly crushed by isolation, and he wants, he wants, he _wants_ , but it doesn’t _matter_ when what he wants is the impossible.

Even if he _could_ love a man, he tries to reason with himself, it wouldn’t make a difference - who would ever want him for more than one night?

Somehow, this never helps. 

*

Whenever he needs to crawl out from under the weight of his loneliness for a few hours, he ventures out to the Muggle gay bars. He thinks sometimes that they may actually be compounding the problem, that it might be better, in the long run, to remove the temptation - but he absolutely doesn’t have the willpower. At the pubs he can let go for a while. He can get too drunk without anybody worrying, wear clothes that he would _never_ wear in front of the other Marauders, and for the night he gets to be around people who don’t know about Voldemort or Death Eaters or the goddamn war.

He goes out one night after a particularly depressing Order meeting (things are getting worse, Voldemort is getting stronger, people are disappearing, there’s no end in sight), intent on drinking until he can’t feel the knot of fear in his stomach anymore. He orders a low-end whiskey and leans against the bar to wait for it, music thrumming around him and making it blissfully difficult to think. He lets out a slow, deep breath and tries to let himself relax. He is, by now, largely able to fight back the shame, at least until the morning after - the alcohol helps - but it’s more difficult on a night like this, when he’s already feeling like shit.

He’s a little zoned out; it doesn’t really register when someone leans against the bar next to him, not even when their arms brush together as the guy leans over to signal to the bartender.

He notices, though, when the guy turns to him, eyes him up and down obviously, and says, “Hi.”

It sends a prickle of annoyance up his spine. He’s not in the mood, not yet - he’s going to need at _least_ a few more drinks before he wants to talk to anyone. Mercifully, the bartender chooses that moment to slide a tumbler of whiskey across the bar to him; he grabs it and takes a large swig, pulling a startled laugh from the man next to him. 

“So it’s one of those nights, huh,” he says drily, and tilts his newly-received pint towards Sirius. “Cheers, then,” and he drinks deeply. 

Sirius, almost despite himself, turns to look at him properly, and there’s an immediate and unwelcome stab of desire in his gut. The man is handsome, with friendly eyes and dark, clear skin, and when he meets Sirius’s gaze he gives him a funny half-smile which, Sirius thinks a little bitterly, is nothing short of enticing.

“Come here often?” he hears himself say, and he immediately swigs more whiskey in an attempt to shut himself up. 

“Not often enough,” says the man, “if I haven’t run into you before.” 

“I don’t come here that often myself.” He’s aiming for a cool tone, but doesn’t get anywhere close. He’s into this guy even though he wishes he wasn’t, even though they’ve exchanged just a few words. 

The man hums in acknowledgement, and then he places his hand on Sirius’s arm. The touch sends thrums of heat through his body, and he bites down on his lip. 

“I’m Iain,” says the man, leaning in towards him. His pint sits, apparently forgotten, on the bar in front of them.

“Sirius,” Sirius replies, slightly breathlessly. His bad mood has ebbed away almost despite himself, replaced by need and longing, and he doesn’t know how the _fuck_ this guy managed to do this to him so easily, so fast, but - 

 _You’re not drunk enough for this_ , he tries to warn himself; but he wants, he wants, he _wants_ and self-control has never been his strong suit. 

He downs the last of his whiskey, slides a £20 note across the bar to the bartender, and tells him to keep the change.

* 

Even though he’s sober, the sex is really, really good.

( _Or perhaps because he’s sober?_  

It’s an unpleasant thought, and he shoves it aside violently. One sober night is perhaps manageable, but _sobriety_ is not.)

*

When they finish, Sirius lets himself sprawl out on top of the sheets for almost exactly three minutes - just until his breathing evens out and his heart rate levels. As soon as he feels able, he hauls himself up and starts pulling his clothes on. The sooner he gets out, the better. 

 _This_ is why he shouldn’t, can’t, be sober. He can’t even look at the man he’d just - Iain, he’d said his name was Iain - he can’t even look at Iain. Shame threatens to choke him every time his mind strays from the task of doing up his jeans.

From the corner of his eye, though, he can see that Iain is watching him.

He’s rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow, the bedsheet pulled casually over his hip. _He_ doesn’t look ashamed; rather, he looks completely relaxed. Suddenly, Sirius hates him a little bit. He wants him to look away, but he continues to watch him dress unabashedly.

“You don’t have to go, you know,” he says conversationally when Sirius goes to put his shoes on, and Sirius just freezes. He probably looks ridiculous, he thinks faintly, half-bent over, one arm outstretched; but Iain’s words, as simple as they were, have knocked him completely off balance.

After a moment, he manages to straighten up. His eyes, despite his best efforts, land on Iain’s face, and his breath hitches in his throat. Iain has got that half-smile on his lips again, and amusement is dancing around his eyes. All Sirius can do is stare at him.

“Stay the night,” Iain continues, apparently oblivious to Sirius’s turmoil. “We could go for breakfast in the morning. I know a place.”

Sirius bites back a hysterical bark of laughter. _Breakfast?_ He tries to imagine himself with Iain in some little cafe, in broad daylight - their legs tangled under the table and Iain giving him that half-smile over the top of his mug and -

Merlin, it sounds really… nice.

For the briefest of moments, Sirius considers accepting the offer - undressing again and getting back into bed and going out together in the morning. The thought of waking up next to somebody instead of alone is so tempting it aches. If breakfast goes well, he thinks, maybe they could even see each other again -

That’s when the usual wave of panic crashes over his head.

It’s - he _can’t_ . He needs to leave _now_ before he tricks himself into thinking there are possibilities here. There _aren’t_ , there can’t be, because Sirius is broken in so many different ways and Iain doesn’t deserve any of them.

“I -” he chokes out, sounding as strangled as he feels. “I’m - I can’t, I - I’m sorry -”

He shoves his feet into his shoes, snatches his jacket off the chair he’d flung it on, and rushes out of the apartment before Iain has a chance to respond, and without saying goodbye.

* 

When he gets home, he barely makes it through the door before he dissolves into angry, self-loathing tears. By the time he manages to pull himself together, his head is pounding and his eyes are swollen and he’s so exhausted he feels like he could go to sleep and never wake up.

He sleeps slumped onto his kitchen table; he doesn’t think he could stand waking up in his bed alone.

*

He thinks about Iain all week.

It’s not on _purpose_ \- he just pops into Sirius’s head whenever his thoughts stray. At first it makes him burn with that familiar shame, but then - and he can’t say how this happens, or even when, really, because it happens so slowly that he doesn’t even notice - it mellows out into a pleasant, ticklish sort of warmth that he might call fondness. He catches himself smiling thinking about their conversation at the bar; at first he tries to stop himself, but eventually he gives up.

He’s so used to the shame that _not_ feeling it, even in brief intervals, is very odd, even unsettling. But even with his tendency to self-sabotage, Sirius can’t bring himself to worry about these little daydreams, much less to try to quash them.

Maybe Iain would understand, if Sirius went back - if he told him _I’m fucked up, and I have some shit to work through, but I think I really like you and I’d like to take you for breakfast_. He seemed like he would understand.

As one week turns into two, Sirius starts thinking that it might be worth a shot. 

*

It takes him the rest of the week to work himself up to it. He plans to go on Saturday, and when the day comes he wakes up early, gets dressed, and then has a panic attack before he even makes it to the front door. He spends the rest of the day under his covers, hating himself and the way that he is.

He is not, however, a Gryffindor for nothing; he tries again the next day.

This time, he makes it out the door.

*

Because he’d been sober, he remembers where Iain’s flat is. He pulls up on his bike around nine AM, parks it, and takes a moment to breathe.

It’s in this moment that he realizes he has no plan.

He doesn’t know Iain’s schedule - maybe he’s already gone out for the day. Or, maybe he won’t be going out at all today, and Sirius will end up waiting around for hours for no reason.

He might have to go upstairs and knock - a plan which could end with him waking Iain up, which he doesn’t want to do - and besides, he’s not _completely_ confident that he actually remembers Iain’s flat number.

He’s still puzzling it over when the building’s front door swings open and Iain himself steps out.

They lock eyes immediately, and for a minute they just stare at each other in silence. Iain looks surprised, but not displeased.

“Are you just in the neighbourhood?” he asks eventually. “Or is it me you’re creepily hoping to intercept?”

Sirius flushes and opens his mouth to apologise when Iain shakes his head. “I’m not creeped out, just — you seemed pretty certain about not hanging around the other week. In fact, I seem to recall you literally _sprinting_ out the door.”

“I - yeah.” Sirius considers kicking his bike into gear and just… driving off without another word. Instead, he takes a deep breath and tries for a charming smile. “I, y’know, I thought on it a bit and I - you seem great, and I was - D’you want to go get breakfast? With me?”

Not his smoothest moment, to be sure, but Iain is smiling that half-smile; he makes a great show of considering the offer, tapping one finger on his chin and humming exaggeratedly. Sirius is suddenly itching to kiss him. He holds himself back.

“Alright,” Iain says finally. “Breakfast sounds nice. You’re buying, though.”

Sirius _grins_ at him, couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to. “Sure,” he says, a little giddy. “Yeah. I can do that.” 

He climbs off his bike, nearly stumbling but catching himself. “You said you know a place,” he says.

“I do,” Iain confirms, and holds out his hand, and Sirius…

Sirius takes it.


End file.
